


Eye of the Beholder

by Percygranger



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Attempted Rape, Inappropriate Arousal/Attraction, M/M, Slight Kink Shaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-21
Updated: 2012-03-21
Packaged: 2017-11-02 08:19:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/366927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Percygranger/pseuds/Percygranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's life is impacted by one very important event: his rape at fifteen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The past:

_He grabbed Sherlock’s other arm and pinned it above his head, pulling the other up to cross it, and then he was holding him with one hand while the other worked on his own trousers._

_“Please- you’re scaring me,”_

_“Shh... It’s fine. Here, you’ll like this. I promise.”_

 

Sherlock had actually liked Ian, he was smarter than his peers, and had a wicked sense of humour; seeing past the masks everyone wore a lot like Sherlock did, but emotionally, not through his own clumsy attempts at deduction. He was getting better all the time, though, Mycroft said so.

The older boy had invited Sherlock over, a rare attempt at friendship. Sherlock had accepted, curious to see which of his deductions had been right. Did he really live in a house with a second story (yes), did he have a dog and a cat (yes, one on the first floor, and one on the ground “They fight like cats and dogs,” Ian said, grinning), was his room painted yellow (no, his kitchen was). And, well, he liked the other boy; was flattered by his attention and acceptance.

Ian had encouraged Sherlock to sit down on his bed with him, drinking lemonade and talking about the classes they were going to take next semester. Then the conversation drifted, as conversations between boys of a certain age do, to girls.

“Amanda has great tits, I wish she’d be a little less of a prude and let me touch them,” Ian’s voice was resigned and somewhat envious.

Sherlock’s face scrunched up, “I don’t get it, what makes them so great?” He felt fairly safe voicing his lack of knowledge to Ian, as he’d been helpful in explaining odd human behaviour before.

“Well, they’re big, and bouncy, and you can see her nipples through her blouse sometimes when they perk up. They’re just, great.”

“Right,” Sherlock’s voice expressed doubt, possibly sarcasm.

“What? You don’t like tits? Too young for that?”

“I am not too young, I’m fifteen! Just a few months younger than you.”

“Yeah, yeah, so what, you like guys then? They do have nice butts. I can kinda see it.”

“I don’t know, maybe I just don’t like people. They’re all so stupid most of the time.”

“Oh really? Then why are you hanging out with me? I’m ‘people’,” Ian’s tone turned teasing.

“You’re not- Well, you’re only stupid sometimes, not most of the time,” Sherlock made himself sound high and lofty, above the rest of civilisation. Ian couldn’t know how special he was, he’d get a big head.

“Pff, like you’re much better. You think your deductions make you smarter than everyone? You still don’t get the basics. That’s why Susie Caldfrey slapped you in History last week.”

“It’s not my fault she hadn’t read for the lesson, or that she left clear signs of what she was doing instead,”

“Yeah, but if you’d covered for her instead of outing her secret, she would have been grateful, and you might have got snogged next,”

“Like I would want to snog Susie,”

“Well, how about Eva?”

“No,”

“Bonnie?”

“No way,”

“Christine, Cally, Sarah?”

“No, no, and no,” Sherlock laughed, “Why would I want them when...” He stopped, unwilling to give away too much.

“When what?” Ian’s gaze sharpened a bit, focusing on Sherlock.

Sherlock squirmed a bit, uncomfortable, “Don’t you know?”

“Well, maybe,” Ian’s smile was lazy, slowly drawing up the corners of his mouth, “but nothing wrong with wanting you to say it.”

Sherlock looked down, then up, he breathed in deeply, pushing the words out on the exhale, “Why-would-I-want-them-when-I-like-you.” He waited for the reaction, wincing a bit as possible scenarios jumbled inside his head.

Ian’s smile turned sharper, “I knew it,”

Sherlock wasn’t sure how to respond. Ian didn’t seem upset, or surprised, he seemed...predatory? _Oh._

“I think I should go...”

A hand stopped Sherlock from getting off the bed, “Where are you going? You’re gonna leave me here after that? I deserve at least a little time to respond properly,” Ian’s voice shifted through shades of mock-hurt and persuasiveness.

Sherlock watched the other boy warily, “Well, you aren’t mad, but you don’t seem that happy either.”

“Oh, I am happy, Sherlock, I’m just deciding what to do next,” And, apparently having decided, he pulled Sherlock forward and kissed him squarely on the lips.

Sherlock stiffened in surprise, but nothing bad happened, he just felt the dry warmth of Ian’s lips against his, and smelled him better than he’d been able to before: the lemonade a light citrus, the faded scent of acne cream, a human musk below that. He moved his lips cautiously, testing the response. Ian moved, too, brushing their lips back and forth, then opening his mouth and licking Sherlock across his closed lips.

Sherlock jerked back slightly, expression unsure. Ian’s face showed his own brief confusion, “Oh, c’mon, you know how to kiss, right?”

Sherlock’s short shake of his head caused Ian to huff in surprise. “Really, not even kissing? I mean, you’re obviously a virgin, but you’ve not even snogged yet?”

“So?” Sherlock hated his mind for blanking; leaving him with pathetic, idiotic responses that he would make fun of out of anyone else’s lips.

“Well, we obviously need to correct that,” Ian said archly, like it was completely obvious.

He leaned in again, and Sherlock relaxed a little, meeting the other boy halfway. Ian’s tongue came out again, and this time, Sherlock let it through, parting his lips tentatively. Ian swept across his tongue, painting broad strokes against the roof of his mouth, feeling each tooth, then inviting reciprocation by retreating. Sherlock followed, and imitated what he’d just experienced, learning quickly, trying out things as they occurred to him. He felt Ian smile, and he couldn’t help but do the same. They kissed for a while, taking breaks to catch their breath. Then, Ian’s hands started to wander, moving from tracing his face down to his shoulders, tracing the sides of his shirt to the button of his trousers. Sherlock pulled back.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting to third base. Duh. Second base doesn’t really exist with guys.”

“Third...base?” Sherlock had heard the term in passing before, but had never understood it.

Ian rolled his eyes, “Really? You don’t know this? First base is kissing, holding hands. Second base is touching above the waist, when girls let you touch their tits. Third is below the waist. A home run...” He tilted his head and trailed off suggestively.

“Intercourse. Sex,” Sherlock checked, making sure he understood the metaphor.

“Yes, intercourse,” Ian’s tone suggested Sherlock was using overly complicated words and being unnecessarily dim at the same time, “Now, back to third base...” His hand returned to Sherlock’s trousers.

Sherlock pulled back again, pushing Ian’s hand away, “I, I think I’m okay with kissing for now.”

Ian rolled his eyes, “That’s just because we haven’t done this yet. C’mon,” he grabbed Sherlock’s arm near the wrist and pushed it to the bed, using his other to undo the button and the zipper before Sherlock could bring his other hand into play.

“Ian, I don’t-“

“Just wait and see, Sherlock. You haven’t done this before, so how do you know what you’ll like?” He grabbed Sherlock’s other arm and pinned it above his head, pulling the other up to cross it, and then he was holding him with one hand while the other worked on his own trousers.

“Ian, please- you’re scaring me,” Sherlock twisted a bit, trying to get out of the confining hands, get away. Ian was larger, though, and had gravity on his side.

“Shh... It’s fine. Here, you’ll like this. I promise.” Ian fumbled some lotion from his nightstand and started pumping them both in his hand. Sherlock had been half hard from the kissing, and had rapidly gotten harder once his trousers were undone. He didn’t know what to make of it. Ian was right, his body felt good, even if he didn’t want it intellectually. Was this right? The way it went all the time?

They both came. Ian first, groaning with pleasure, not giving up on Sherlock until he followed suit. Sherlock went limp, lethargy claiming him after his body’s release. Ian let go of Sherlock’s wrists, and let himself fall, halfway draped on the other boy. “See? Told you you’d like it. Home run.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure he had, honestly, but it was over now. That was good; coming had been...intense. He rested for a bit, trying to sort it all out in his head. Eventually, Ian got up and went to his nightstand for tissues. They cleaned up, and went downstairs for a snack. Sherlock went home later in the day; endured Mycroft’s knowing look, and looked up human sexuality in the library’s reference section. Later, he refused Ian’s invitations to come over. The other boy gave up eventually, looking puzzled and hurt. Sherlock wasn’t sure what to make of that. When he wanked, though, he thought of Ian.


	2. Midpoint, The Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Sherlock deals with Uni, and John.

Midpoint:

It took Sherlock several years to understand exactly what had happened to him. Ian, in his gentle, confused way, had made his mind and body a different place.

Wanking to the thought of being held down; to soft kisses and a lack of free choice wasn’t a problem. He wasn’t really pleased by it, but it didn’t interfere with the important parts of his life. He had been raped; that much had been clear the day after the event. The literature focused on female victims, but he was smart enough to apply the basics across gender. Reporting it seemed pointless and far more trouble than it would be worth. The whole thing would upset Mummy and Mycroft. He didn’t need them being even more protective of him than they were now. Would the police even believe him? He had come, had initiated the encounter with Ian, hadn’t said ‘no’. Ian didn’t seem to realize he’d done something wrong, would other normal people see it the same way? Besides, he still liked Ian, to an extent, despite the other boy proving himself just as stupid as the rest of humanity.

In the library, there was nothing to be found on why he felt aroused at the thought of his own encounter. The more he thought about it, it seemed obvious that his body was being stupider than usual, taking the first sexual experience he had and using it as a template for the future. Well, he wouldn’t let his body stop him from living as he pleased; from being happy.

Researching social interactions before they happened, if they were planned, became a habit.

It was inconvenient trying to hide his reactions during films or watching telly when the damsel in distress was restrained or kissed against her will by the antagonist. He took to avoiding most popular culture. It was insipid and pointless, anyway. The three dates he went on in the next three years ended badly. A result of Sherlock’s unwillingness to attend a typical dating activity combined with him being either too jumpy: unwilling to get close, or unsatisfied, turned off when his fellow students tried to follow his lead. Having a close friend wasn’t possible. How could he trust anyone; trust himself, to make good choices after his first had gone so wrong? He threw himself into chemistry and deduction, so full of beautiful details and logic, leaving friendship and affection for the everyday, stupid people.

Uni came with its own set of problems. The people around him were constantly dating, snogging and shagging; leaving the evidence in plain sight, at least to Sherlock’s eyes. He couldn’t help but be jealous. They didn’t have to contend with a screwed up sex drive. They could shag anyone they pleased without having to deal with a secret like his. His naturally biting words got sharper when revealing who was sleeping with whom.

The final nail in the coffin was Warren. Sherlock had decided that he wanted to give relationships one more try, feeling that public school fumblings could be improved upon with his new knowledge and maturity. Warren was in the year above Sherlock’s, the son of a tycoon who supplied the government with military vehicles. Sherlock had picked him because of the rumours. People said Warren was very experienced, and liked more than the usual kind of shag. From what Sherlock could see, and that was a considerable amount, the rumours were true. He was also quite good-looking, a plus. It wasn’t hard to get his attention, a few smiles and a bit of innuendo, and Sherlock had a date for the first time in years.

The date went well, to Sherlock’s surprise. They had dinner at a small but excellent diner off campus. Warren rose in Sherlock’s estimation for avoiding Italian places with faux romantic atmospheres. He was also quite dominant in bed, taking control easily after a few nonverbal hints. The trouble came when they got towards the end of the encounter. Sherlock was on his back, underneath Warren. They were frotting, slick cocks sliding together, one of Warren’s hands helping them along. The other was pinning one of Sherlock’s wrists (he had guided it there surreptitiously, early on). Sherlock was caressing Warren’s back with the other, pretending he had to. Then Warren shifted, releasing Sherlock’s wrist and pulling Sherlock’s hand to join in stroking them both.

Sherlock’s cock immediately began to soften. Warren noticed, of course, how could he not? And looked up at Sherlock, surprise and confusion on his face. “Something wrong?”

Sherlock felt his mouth twist, what should he say? He hadn’t had much luck in the past telling people to ignore his oddities, and most dating treatises recommended honesty in the bed, so Sherlock took a chance, “I was raped my first time. I’d rather be held down,” There, that was succinct and factual. Warren’s wide range of experience was likely to help him understand (surely he wasn’t the only one out there like this?) and hopefully Sherlock could get what he needed to have a satisfying sexual experience.

Instead of understanding, Warren drew back, surprise turning into disbelief, maybe even panic, “You- what?”

Apparently not. Wonderful. “I prefer being held down, is that a problem?”

Warren was gaping at him now, how attractive. “That- I could do that part, yeah, but what was that about...rape? You haven’t said no. I thought you wanted to do this!”

“Warren, _Warren_ , calm down. I’m here of my own free will. You have my enthusiastic consent. My first time didn’t, though, and now I... get off on the thought of it. Surely this isn’t so hard to understand? Haven’t you seen this before?”

“I, no, Sherlock, _no_ , that’s not right. How could you- that’s twisted. How can you even want to have sex like that, get off on it?” Warren was softening now, too. He moved off of Sherlock, watching him with confusion and dismay.

“Females fantasize about rape all the time, at least according to our fellow students. How is this any different?”

“Those’re _fantasies_. They aren’t real.”

“My fantasies aren’t real either, just based on it. And what triggers my sex drive is not something I can change, dammit!” Sherlock hissed the last word in frustration. He looked down, measuring the distance between Warren and himself, “So we’re not going to do this?”

Warren’s eyes widened, making him look like a scared rabbit. He laughed weakly, “No, no we’re not. This is too freaky for me.”

Sherlock’s head jerked up in acknowledgement, lips pressed together bitterly, “Excellent. Thank you for the non-experience.”

He climbed off the bed, found his clothing, and swept towards the door. He was hyper-aware of his movements, making them as smooth and unconcerned as possible. Well, so much for that. He’d been fine without sex before, he’d be fine now. His body wasn’t the important part of him. The essential part of Sherlock was his mind, and his mind didn’t need sex, or food, or anything but proper stimulation.

Sherlock Holmes controlled his body, not the other way around.

The present:

His uni days were long behind him. He’d discovered drugs, and believed that he’d finally found a way to stimulate his mind perfectly, without outside help. It took an embarrassingly long time to realise just how much of a slave they made him to his own body, but he did, and he quit (with a bit of help, he only grudgingly admitted). He’d rediscovered how absorbing solving crimes was; letting him put to use all the research he’d done in the past, trying to understand how people worked, and what the most minute part of their appearance suggested about them.

He’d made a friend.

John was a marvel: the unpredictable and predictable rolled into one. Sherlock suspected his experiences in Afghanistan along with a somewhat troubled past had altered his behaviour to make him something outside of typical. He’d also backed off completely when Sherlock indicated his interest was not reciprocated. He was very nearly perfect.

And he had been kidnapped.

Sherlock had to find him before something happened, but he needed John to find out where John was because John was his sounding board, his travelling skull. A man should not be so dependent on another, but that was the situation Sherlock found himself in. He slogged through the clues, the observations and deductions at three-quarters his normal rate without John there, with John gone. _Dammit, where are you?_

Finally, the clues snapped together, like a puzzle sorting itself out in one move, or an electric circuit being connected. John was at a warehouse near the docks within walking distance of a stationary store and a run-down bar. He went through the possibilities using his phone and gave Lestrade the second-best location because he couldn’t be certain and John needed help. The taxi driver was a bribable fellow, and Sherlock reached the warehouse in twenty minutes, a new record for this area.

Sherlock raced inside, staying low and silent. The man they were chasing was clever. He had been kidnapping, raping, and murdering male prostitutes for years in Birmingham before moving to London three weeks ago. Prostitutes that looked like John, to a certain extent. Their semi-celebrity had worked against them again. Sometimes Sherlock wished he had Moriarty’s freedom of mind, so that he could murder the press. As he slowed, searching the building methodically, starting at the most likely places to hold a prisoner, Sherlock had little hope he’d made it before the kidnapping turned into the next two items on the list, but giving up wasn’t an option.

He found John and his kidnapper in the third room he searched. John was tied to a chair, blind-folded. His jumper and jeans had been removed, leaving him in his pants and undershirt, the latter pushed up to his armpits. John was straining away from the man, Donald Previn, as he spoke in low tones, his hands running slowly over his exposed torso. Sherlock ignored his own gut-deep reaction and stepped forward silently, taking advantage of his enemy’s distraction to get close. The kidnapper’s hands dipped lower, and Sherlock rushed him, tackling him to the ground.

They hit the floor with a thump. Previn was winded by the impact; Sherlock used that time to clock him across the face. Unfortunately the blow didn’t knock the man out; he’d have to work on that. They struggled briefly, rolling on the dusty floor, exchanging blows that bruised and winded and sometimes failed completely. Sherlock ended the fight with a head-butt that cracked the man’s already bruised skull against the concrete.

He got up, dusting himself off as best he could, and turned to John, who hadn’t spoken a word. He looked to be listening intently, a sharp expression on his face. Sherlock’s stomach tightened at the sight of his partner.

“John, you’re safe now.” He might despise obvious statements for their own sake, but John obviously needed the reassurance. He moved to release the ropes binding John’s arms. “Are you hurt?”

John’s body relaxed at the sound of Sherlock’s voice, and he smiled, a bit twisted, “Sherlock, I’m fine, thank you. He’s out?”

“Yes, Previn isn’t going to be bothering anyone for a while.”

“Good,” The knots gave. John stretched his newly-freed arms and removed the blind-fold, blinking in the low light, “How long?”

“We discovered you were missing three hours ago, by which time you had been gone for two. I’m surprised he didn’t get any further in his agenda,” Sherlock’s voice held a certain tension, not quite a question.

“He drugged me: injected me with a sedative, I think, and then had to clean up the mess when I reacted badly to it. Apparently, I have a mild drug allergy I never knew about. He relocated us after; which I made as difficult as possible. I passed out after he knocked me on the head. He said he didn’t like playing with limp bodies,” a slight shudder passed through his frame.

“I see. Can you walk?”

“We’ll see,” John got up slowly, using the chair for balance. His legs wavered but held. He let go of the chair, took an experimental step, and promptly collapsed, Sherlock managed to grab him before he hit the ground.

“That’s a no, then,” John’s voice was a bit breathless.

“It’s fine. I’ll call Lestrade and have them come with an ambulance. You can get checked out and Lestrade can take our serial murderer into custody,” Sherlock helped John back into the chair slowly.

“Rushed off without him again?”

“Sent him to another possible location, this one wasn’t certain.”

“Oh.”

Sherlock made the call, and they sat and stood in silence for a while. Sherlock rechecked the knots were tight on their prisoner, although he knew he had tied them perfectly the first time. The case was over now. They should be walking away and finding a good restaurant for dinner, or was it time for breakfast? Instead, they were waiting while the painfully law-abiding police took their time to arrive and Sherlock could not stop re-playing the scene in his head. John tied up, helpless, being groped, molested unwillingly. God. He shivered a bit. This shouldn’t turn him on, shouldn’t make him want to kiss John and press him up against a wall, rubbing and sucking and licking until they came.

“Sherlock, are you okay?” John had noticed something, he must have. Sherlock hadn’t realised he was being so obvious.

“Fine, just... bored,” He was lying very badly. This place was affecting him more than he’d realised.

“Already? I swear your attention span is getting shorter by the day,” John grinned, inviting him to share the joke.

Sherlock smiled ruefully back, wanting to kiss John into that chair, then switch their positions, maybe have him pin him there with his arms...he shivered at the thought. No. None of that. John’s expression slipped back to concern, but Sherlock cut him off, “I think I’ll wait outside. Show the police in when they finally arrive,” he started striding to the door, taking long steps.

“Sherlock,”

Sherlock stopped, waiting for John’s words, whatever they might be.

“It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

“You should.”

There was a small broken laugh, “When have I ever acted the way I should around you?”

Sherlock nearly turned; nearly gave in. Let himself act on those stupid, _wrong_ impulses that had been set so long ago. Then he set his jaw, and moved towards the door again. He controlled his body, no one else. He would not let the past dictate his present, or his future.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/14213.html?thread=75835525#t75835525) at the Sherlock BBC Kinkmeme. Brit-picked by kathecello.


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